After That
by stilinskiandson
Summary: A series of oneshots set directly after each episode of Season 4, in an AU where Stydia is canon and thriving. Pointless bits of fluff that will hopefully help make Stalia a little easier to deal with.
1. Episode 1

It's about 4 in the morning when Stiles pulls the Jeep over at a gas station that makes his vehicle look like a gleaming Ferrari. The sky is turning from jet black to aquamarine, but this just reminds the occupants of the Jeep that they haven't slept for more than 24 hours now. Stiles, the designated driver, is perhaps doing the worst.

It doesn't help that they've had to squeeze an extra passenger in. It doesn't help even more that this extra passenger is Derek. It doesn't help further that Derek is no longer their elder but a teenager whose hormones are currently stinking up the car.

Cutting the engine, Stiles squeezes the steering wheel for a moment before letting a long sigh out of his lips. "Okay…I need…something…" he mutters.

From the passenger seat, Scott nods his understanding. "Twenty minute break guys, let's stretch our legs, get some food," he says, turning to face the four passengers currently crammed in the back. Derek, who has been asleep for the entirety of the journey and shows no sign of waking soon, Malia, who has her arms forcibly squashed by her side, Kira whose head keeps lolling across onto Malia's shoulder, and Lydia, who can't keep her eyes off the back of the driver's head. At Scott's words, Lydia jumps slightly, as if jerking out of a reverie, before hurrying to pull the door open and allow them all some much needed space. She's pretty quick at getting herself out, but Stiles is still already halfway towards the gas station's shop, head down low and hands in his pockets.

Scott glances to Lydia, and they share a silent moment of communication. _You or me?_ Lydia takes a step towards Stiles, waving a hand back towards the Jeep. "You could use the break as well, Scott. Keep an eye on Derek- I'll check on him." She doesn't wait for an answer, already striding after Stiles.

She catches up with him by the coffee machine, where he's belligerently emptying sachet after sachet of sugar into a paper cup. When she slips her hand up his arm and across his shoulder, he doesn't jump. He had a feeling she would be close behind him, and the gratitude is clear in his eyes when he turns to smile at her. A weak smile, because he hasn't got the energy for much else. "Hey," he says, tugging another cup from the pile and automatically beginning to make up a coffee for her as well.

"Hey," she returns, turning so her back is resting against the counter and so that she can examine his face properly. Stiles, she knows, is good at making his voice sound convincing but his face always gives away what he's actually feeling. Indeed, despite the cheer in his voice, there are creases around his eyes that mean he's barely keeping it together. "You could get Scott to drive, you know. Nobody's going to check insurance documents at this time of night."

Stiles puts Lydia's paper cup under the machine, presses the button for latte before coming to rest against the counter also, shoulders bumping against hers. "It's fine, really. I'd rather think about driving than _what_ I've got in the back of my car." He leans across to bump his chin against the top of her head, leaving it there for a moment. "Thanks, though. How's it going in the back?" he asks a second later, and Lydia decides to indulge in his clear effort to change to subject.

"Squashed," she grumbles, shooting him a glare when his chin bumps against her head with a badly-stifled chortle. "Kira keeps almost falling asleep and then jerking her elbow into my side. It's going to bruise soon."

Stiles' hands come to rest on the offending area, rubbing in slow circles. "You're such a trooper," he sighs with _almost _sincere admiration. Until she looks up and catches the smirk hovering around the corner of his mouth. With a huff, she jabs him in the ribs with one finger, causing him to jerk back and almost knock over her freshly made coffee.

"You're a dumbass," she retorts, as he hurriedly moves her cup out of harm's way and sets about finishing up his own. He shoots her a mock offended look, but once the machine is whirring away again, he is back to standing beside her with as little space between them as possible.

"I know." He is silent for a moment, eyes fixed on his feet as he carefully lines them up next to Lydia's, distracted for a moment in seeing the difference in size there. Then he turns to her, one arm coming round her shoulders to rest lightly there. "Hey, I'm sorry for snapping at you earlier. By the Jeep. You had every right to be scared, it was a crazy situation. I was just...well, I was just terrified as well."

Lydia nods in acceptance. "I know," she replies, shooting him a little smile before leaning up to press a brief kiss to his cheek. "Like I said: you're a dumbass. But you're forgiven. Next time we take my car."

Stiles makes a 'hmm' noise in return, which Lydia translates as 'I'm not sure I agree with that but I'm too tired to argue about it right now'. But she ignores it, and moves on to what they really should be talking about right now, while they have the chance. She presses her cheek down against the hand on her shoulder, finding a moment of solace in the familiar bumps of his knuckles before speaking again: "We'll get him back to normal Stiles, I promise. There has to be a way."

Stiles nods slowly, glancing down at her. "Is that a banshee prediction?" he asks, eyebrows quirking upwards.

She shakes her head, grinning despite the fact that she's being teased. "No. A Lydia prediction. Which is much more accurate anyway," she points out, nodding in a firm way to convince herself of this fact (a habit that makes Stiles' heart stumble every time she does it).

"Can't argue that," he murmurs, turning round to fetch his coffee. "I had all these expectations, of what we were going to find. Dead Derek, horribly mangled Derek…considering it was Kate I thought any of the above were pretty likely. But I didn't ever think for a second that this could happen. What are we meant to do with him? Is he even going to know who we are?" Derek hadn't spoken since they had found him, not even in the short time when he had been awake. Just sat with a look of utter shock upon his face. And it was driving Stiles crazy.

"All we can do is a wait and see, Stiles. We'll figure it out."

Stiles hands her her coffee, before wrapping his hands around his own cup. "Sleep when we get home for a few hours, then research?" he asks. Right now Lydia can't imagine ever having enough energy again to do something like research but she knows that Stiles is a boy who seeks comfort from having facts sprawled around him. She is in fact surprised (and relieved) that he has actually suggested they sleep first. So she nods. She can already picture the reels of thread he's going to pull out, and she distantly wonders how much red there will be this time.

"Fine. You'd better go buy a whole load of snacks then. I'm not doing this without sustenance. And proper stuff this time, not your Dad's leftover cereal bars."

Stiles takes latte from her so that he can pay for it, then presses a kiss against her forehead in a brief moment of affection that Lydia wishes could be longer. "No cereal bars, promise. I was broke, and it was all I had in the house. Now, though- oh just you wait," he chuckles, shaking his head with a low whistle. "You're going to be calling me Snackmaster after this."

Lydia doesn't dignify that with an answer. Just points towards the snacks to send him on his way before heading out to the car once again. Scott is leaning against the bonnet, keeping an eye on the girl's toilets. Lydia supposes that's where Kira and Malia are, seeing as they can't be seen anywhere else. As Lydia stops beside him, he turns his attention to her. "Is he okay?" he asks.

Lydia wiggles her head from side to side in a 'so-so' motion. "As much as any of us are. He just wants to know what's wrong with Derek."

Scott snorts slightly. "I think we all do," he murmurs, eyebrows creased together with immense concentration. Then the girls are back from the bathroom, talking to each other in hushed voices about whatever it was they saw in the darkness. After that, it doesn't take long for Stiles to reappear again. He has two bags, bulging with snacks. "Okay, seeing as we didn't end up spending all our Derek Hale fund, I went a little wild," he admits, as his four passengers stare at him with bewilderment. Cheeks flushing somewhat, he passes one bag across to Scott. "That's for the car," he says, then hands to other one over to Lydia. "That's for Lydia," he explains with a snigger. Lydia shakes her head in silent derision, moving off towards the back seat again.

She's placing the food at the sleeping Derek's feet when he's back beside her again. Stiles wraps his arms around her middle, loose enough for her to spin around to face him. "Satisfied?" he asks, and Lydia makes a small noise of vague agreement. She doesn't want him being too smug after all. He grins, leans down to press a firm kiss against her lips. "See you at the other end," he murmurs once he's pulled away, "Don't let Kira permanently scar you, eh?"

Lydia grins, then shoves him gently away. "Go!" she chuckles, and he stumbles obligingly away to hop back into the front.

Soon after, the silent gas station fills with the sound of a clattering engine. The Jeep trundles it way back onto the highway, heading onwards towards Beacon Hills. The barely functioning engine is loud enough to echo back for a good two minutes. Then all is quiet once more.


	2. Episode 2

It is abundantly clear that Stiles Stilinski is having a sulk. It's 2am, they've just spent an hour searching their school for any clues about who took Peter's stupid money, and have only now managed to find themselves safe in the folds of Lydia's bed. And Stiles is sulking.

He lies on his front, arms splayed out in front of him like a scowling star fish (for he is indeed scowling, eyes fixed determinedly on the ceiling). He hasn't reacted to her sliding into bed beside him, hasn't even commented on her decision to negate the use of pyjamas. He just lies there, bottom lip jutting out until Lydia reaches across and prods it.

"You're sulking," she states, so that both parties know exactly where they stand (in that Stiles knows that Lydia knows what he's doing and will not take it for much longer).

"Not," he retorts, eyes flicking down to stare determinedly at one frayed sleeve of his t-shirt. "Just tired."

Lydia shifts, her feet coming to press against his, enjoying the little twitch as her colder feet make contact. "Liar. You're sulking. Why?"

Stiles shakes his head. "I'm not sulking, I'm trying to sleep-" he jerks his head in her direction. "Since when has that been so unusual?"

Lydia snorts. "Since when have you slept on your back without a single smidge of wriggling?" she returns, before sitting up in bed. This way she can get a real look at his face. For a moment this distracts her, because he's got little shadows under his eyes that Lydia can't help but find sort of adorable. Especially when he's still sticking out his bottom lip like a damned toddler. "What is it, Stiles? Is it 'cause I insulted your bat?"

Stiles scowls deeper. "I'd forgotten about that," he mutters. He's trying to lie perfectly still to fully display how unimpressed he currently is but Lydia can see his fingers are starting to twitch, up and down, up and down. He doesn't have the stamina for this. So Lydia lies back down again.

"Okay. Don't tell me then. I'm going to sleep." She rolls over onto her side so her back is facing him, closes her eyes and tries not to smile as she begins to mentally count. She gets to six before Stiles makes a funny strained sound and rolls over so he's practically on top of her.

"Okay fine!" he snaps, his elbows digging into her side until she wriggles to face him again. He scowls at her, and Lydia can imagine her expression is particularly smug right now. She's not about to change that though. "I'm sulking because I was right."

Lydia raises on eyebrow, slowly, propping her head up with one hand. "Surely that's not a reason to sulk? Unless it just reminded you of how many times you're wrong." Stiles' expression is deadpan, although Lydia's chuckles can't help but bring a twitch of a smile to his cheeks. Damn her.

"No. I'm sulking because I was right about you staying with Derek last night. It _was_ a bad idea. You almost got shredded by Mister Keen Claws back there." Stiles sits up, glowering down at her even when she uses one foot to rub his leg, up and down. "Why do you insist on giving me a heart attack on a daily basis? Just because you can sense death, doesn't mean you can avoid your own."

Lydia sits up as well, hands coming to loop loosely around his chest. "You just dragged me into a dark vault belonging to a psychopath, with nothing but your dumbass baseball bat to protect us- and you're complaining about me not looking after myself?" She looks incredulously at him and Stiles' face drops with almost cartoon shock. Stumped. Satisfied, she flops back against her pillow, hands resting on her stomach.

Stiles isn't done yet though. He hasn't quite dug himself into a deep enough hole yet. "That's different. We had to do that, there wasn't a choice. But last night- Deaton was fine on his own!"

"Shaky argument, Stilinski," she replies, eyes drifting shut with a grin. She can almost feel Stiles' teeth gritting tight together. His argument is crumbling, a shaky foundation built in rapidly crumbling cliffs.

A moment later, he has flopped back down beside her again, gathering her against his chest like a toddler protecting a toy from the possibility of being shared. Anybody else would receive a jab in the chest for such possessive behaviour but Stiles somehow gets away with it. Maybe it's because it's always followed by a nuzzling of his nose against her ear. "I just don't want you getting hurt," he mumbles against her neck. She turns, plants a kiss against his forehead. It spreads across his face, turning the crinkling frown into a smooth plane of calm. Moments like this make Lydia wonder if the nogitsune would have been so potent in his Stiles' mind if she had been in his arms then.

She can't lie though. She can't say she won't get hurt, because she doesn't know if that's true. All she can say is: "I don't want you to get hurt, either. But we can't really avoid that, can we? We needed to watch him and you needed to make sure you started to catch up on your school work after missing so much school before."

'Before' meaning when the nogitsune screwed up his school schedule, which is why Stiles tugs her a little closer, as if he's worried he's going to lose her just by thinking about the time. A moment later, he sighs, his breath tickling around her ear and making her squirm. "What would you do with that money?" he asks a moment later, fingers tracing around her belly button. She likes how his hyperactive tendencies to fiddle and fidget have extended across to her.

"Buy you a new Jeep," she mumbles into the pillow, grinning as his tracing fingers turn to lightly prodding ones. She squirms, turning back to face him. "You?"

Stiles shrugs, glancing away for a moment (and there's a shadow of a psychiatric hospital bill in his eyes that Lydia is yet to know about). "Not sure." He looks back to her, his eyes twinkling like two stars plotting a dastardly plan to crash into planet Earth. "I'd buy Scott a private tutor because that's the only way we're going to graduate in the same year. And then I'd buy you some new bedsheets," he grumbles, plucking at the obnoxiously floral covers he's currently sheltering under. She rolls her eyes, muttering something about the death of romance.

Feeling that he has settled the grumblings in his mind, Stiles shuffles further under the covers, bringing her with him. "Think Peter will be okay? Pretty sure I saw him tearing up," he sniggers, not stopping even when Lydia smacks his arm.

"He's a psychopath, he doesn't know how to be sad. Even about money."

"Wonder who it was…"

Lydia can sense Stiles' flighty sparrow of a mind beginning to fidget on its branch, getting ready to fly. So she pulls it back to earth with a gentle squeeze of his arm. "Time to sleep, Stiles. We'll sort it out. Promise."

He lets out a grumbling sound of agreement, then pulls her a little closer. She stays awake until he's asleep, like she always does. She's not sure why. Maybe she just likes the sound of his breathing slowing, likes the feeling of his fidgeting petering away to a mere twitch here and there.

With his soft breath fluttering the hair around her ears, Lydia feels her own mind switch off. Mysterious plots by mass murderers, strangers stealing money from psychopaths- they all float away and all that matters is Stiles' hands knotted around hers, and his heartbeat thudding against the nubs of her spine.


	3. Episode 3

Lydia gets home at midnight and finds him sitting on her doorstep. Knees bunched right up, almost by his chin and feet jiggling up and down so much that she's surprised he hasn't worn them away completely. He's anxious then. He holds in one hand a crisp clean notebook that she recognises as her own, and the one she lent to Malia (last time she checked, it's always hard to keep up).

Because she's exhausted and fuming from the police department's insistence that she needed a full two hours of interviewing, she doesn't stop. Just breezes past him. "What is it, Stiles?" she asks, reaching the door with her key already ready. "You said you were going to go see Scott. I'm fine, he needs you more than I do right now." From the message she had received a while back, it seemed that while the situation at the hospital was under control, it hadn't been without a few casualties. Funny how quickly she was numbing to that word.

Stiles doesn't seem to hear her. He's hopped up, rubbing at his thighs in an attempt to warm them up before stumbling into the house. "I needed to see you first, it was important." He comes to stand before her, brandishing the notebook frantically. He says nothing for a moment, as if the notebook is a clue enough. But it becomes rapidly apparent that this is not the case, when Lydia snatches the notebook from him and uses it to slap his shoulder.

"Stiles! Speak to me! Words, remember?" Sighing, she pushes past him and flops down on the nearby sofa. He's followed her over a second later, sitting beside her and taking the notebook from her. He flicks through it quickly, making impatient noises until he finds the right page. It's almost adorable, if Lydia wasn't so tired.

"Stiles-" She begins, but gets a finger placed across her lips for her trouble. A moment later, he releases her mouth and shows her the page he's been looking for. It's covered in letters, numbers, scrawled over the page and filling every little space possible. It's completely unfamiliar to her, except for the fact that it's clearly her handwriting. She frowns, immediately forgetting that she's tired and grumpy, and takes the notebook from him again. "This is…my writing…" She shifts, her legs automatically coming to rest across his lap. "I don't remember writing this…"

Lydia glances up at Stiles, all wide-eyed and it's automatic for him to lean across and kiss her temple in a soothing way. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay."

"But what does this mean?" she demands, brandishing the notebook frantically, aware that she is now doing the exact same action she just reprimanded him for.

"Probably nothing. Probably just you randomly doodling in maths." He still has his chin resting against the top of her head, his eyes lingering on the notebook as she flicks through the other pages.

Lydia pauses, shoots him a mock glare. "I don't _randomly doodle_ in maths, Stiles. I happen to enjoy it and want to concentrate." She turns her attention back to the notebook, but not before she's muttered: "I use it for things other than tipping…"

Stiles chuckles at that, wrapping one arm around her middle. "Not all of us can be mathematical whizzes, you know."

Lydia smiles for a moment, but it doesn't reach her eyes as her fingers tug the pages back to the one that has caused her Stiles so much bother. "You know it wasn't doodling, Stiles. You wouldn't have sat for…how long were you waiting?"

"About an hour."

"Well there you go…" Lydia sighs, one hand coming to rub at her forehead. "It means something…and I'm so sick of not knowing what that something is. It's going to be something terrible and…murder-related and I don't want to find anymore damn bodies, Stiles." She groans these final words, coming to rest her head on his shoulder.

Stiles is silent for a moment, trying not to wince at the added pressure being place on his rather sore shoulder. Stupid lacrosse. Finally he speaks, stroking her arm as he does so. "Maybe it's a code?"

"Great. Do you know what code it is?" She looks up at him, hope playing in the corners of her eyes. But Stiles' crinkled eyebrows and slight grimace as he stares at the notebook doesn't give her much confidence that he's on the brink of working it out.

"Nope," he says, as she nudges him impatiently. "But Malia thought it was maths so there has to be some sort of pattern in there, right?"

"Or she just saw it was my maths book…"

Stiles shoots her a look, taps the notebook against her nose. "Being pessimistic again," he scolds her, before standing up. "Come on. Let's see what we can find out about it. There must be something."

He's got that look in his eyes again. That glint that Lydia has come to associate with Stiles needing to solve a problem. It's a serious need that doesn't get ignored easily so even though it's the middle of the night by now and they have school in the morning, she allows herself to be dragged onto their feet. Then upstairs and into her room. In the past, Lydia would probably have kicked out any boy who took her to her room only to fire up her computer for research but then Stiles was different. Different in so many ways.

They assume the position. Lydia on the right, Stiles on the left. Laptop in the middle. Their shared stash of researching snacks on the floor by Lydia's side, so that Stiles doesn't binge on them straight away. Mobile phones swapped over so that Stiles has Lydia's and Lydia has Stiles' (this way if Scott sends something, Lydia can decide if it's suitably serious to interrupt their digging). Stiles props the notebook open on the right page by the laptop, and then they begin. They type in random phrases from the page, drift through endless pages from the strangest corners of the internet. But find nothing.

At 2am, Stiles gets the fidgets and has to start standing up, and pacing the room. At this point, Lydia digs through her drawers and finds a ball of red string that she has had waiting for the moment that Stiles' research tactics inevitably spilled over into her bedroom. The look she receives from him is enough to make her heart sing. Enough to make it worth it, to make it less painful when her room is transformed into a chaotic web of red. She watches with a little smile on her face as he scrambles from one side of the room to the other, fingers tracing along the string as he rambles on about possible connections between letters and numbers.

At 3am, the research descends into something else. Lydia gets bored of cluelessness seeping into her room and distracts herself by tying Stiles' ankles together, which then causes him to tie her ankle to his ankle. This then descends into a wrestling over the ball of red string, until Lydia gets on top of Stiles and distracts him with breath-stealing kisses.

At 5am, with sun blossoming on the edges of Lydia's curtains, there is an altogether different scene to be found from the one at the start of the night. The laptop is on standby, the snacks are gone, the mobile phones vibrate unnoticed at periodic moments. In the meantime, Lydia lays curled up in the comforting curve of Stiles' body with one pen still held loosely in her hands. Stiles' nose is pressed against her hair while his other hand pools against her stomach, keeping her close. They've got nowhere near to solving the problem, Stiles still has to talk to Scott about whatever went on at the hospital, not to mention apologise to Malia for ditching their study session. But right now, with a comfortable sixty minutes until Lydia's alarm will go off, none of that matters. Because when Stiles is holding her, she has this funny feeling that even if he's not a werewolf, he would still rip apart anybody who came near her. And it's strange, because Stiles has the very same idea.


	4. Episode 4

His phone buzzes in his pocket. One time. Two times. Three times. He knows he needs to answer it. He knows his dad will be worrying, knows that he is already way past his curfew and probably will be getting a full on lecture when he gets home. But right now, he can't worry about that. There's a list of names blaring out of a screen in front of him which makes that abundantly clear. Who cares about grounding and shouting when someone in Beacon Hills has drawn up a list of people that apparently need to die?

He's sure Lydia Martin's name is bolded. He knows deep down it's not but it seems to glow out at him, mocking him. _Your girlfriend is going to die. Your girlfriend is going to bring me some cash and she's going to be next, just you wait and see. _He feels sick, he feels his heart beating so hard that its bruising his ribs. He feels her own fear radiating from her curved shoulders as she sits beside him. He feels as well her reluctance to say anything when there are other people here. One hand comes to rest on her shoulder and he squeezes it gently, hoping that little gesture will be enough for the moment. She pulls a hand up to rest against it for a moment, rubs the bumps of his knuckles. A silent thank you for his efforts.

Distantly, he hears Kira mumbling something about finding Scott. He's still not back from dealing with Liam and Stiles tries not to let the worry spread into a roaring monster. He can't protect everyone. He has scratch marks on his arms from his attempts to help Malia through her full moon, with Lydia's advice ringing in his ears ('She's scared of hurting someone else, Stiles. You can relate. What made you come back?'). He can't protect everyone.

Kira leaves and the room is theirs. The house has a slumped, bruised feel to it. The aftermath of what was probably the best party those freshmen had ever been to. How little they knew about the underlying cracks. Stiles takes a deep breath and takes a chance, snapping the laptop shut. It could potentially earn him a scowl but he needs her to stop staring at her name and the names of their friends. He needs to do the same. She doesn't scowl. She bends her head down, chin resting against chest as she sucks in a deep breath.

Then she speaks, her voice a hushed whisper. It's cracked and it scares Stiles to hear it, because Lydia is whole, firm and steady. "They want to kill me. I'm going to die. They're going to kill me."

Stiles tugs her a little closer and he knows it's probably a little forceful but he can't help the deep, brutal urge he has to keep her safe above all costs. He feels like he's on the lacrosse pitch again, begging with Peter to let her live, to take him instead, to do anything but kill her. "Just let them try," he almost growls against her hair, and shoots a glare around the room as if assassins are already queuing up in the corners, ready to take her.

He can see the edges of her eyes. They're glazed, like contact lenses made of blank glass have been placed there. She's imagining her battered body, imagining Stiles having to find it, having to continue on without her. _Death doesn't happen to you, Lydia. _He was trying to protect her all that time ago, trying so hard to keep her out of all this. But it was too late already, back then. She was already changing into the prized supernatural thing she is now. Already earning her spot on this list.

"I don't want to die. I don't want you to have to see me die." She turns to face him properly, arms wrapping around his chest and cheek pressing against the centre of his sternum. She feels a heartbeat that is not quite resting. Feels his breath coming in slow, weary gasps. He has been pulled through the mill this evening, and he probably isn't finished yet.

Stiles bends slightly, so he can look her straight in the eye. Rests his back against the nearby table and holds her at arm's length. "Listen to me, Lydia. I didn't drag myself back from the inner guts of a nogitsune just to have you die on me. Besides, you're forgetting who you are. You're Lydia Martin. You have kept yourself safe so many times, without even needing anybody else's help. I pity whichever idiot comes after you." He's trying to make these words help him as well and it's almost working. Until his eyes flick to the scar on her neck that still lingers there from Jennifer's attempted murder. She was so close to going then. But that was just one time, right? She's done so well. She's always done so well. "You got bitten by an alpha and you didn't die; you didn't even become a werewolf. You are strong, Lydia. And you will get through this." His words are firming like setting cement and Lydia's weak smile seems to speed the process. She stumbles forward, presses a brief kiss against his lips before resting against his chest once more.

His arms automatically wrap around her frame, drawing her a little closer. They are silent for a moment, until Lydia speaks again: "I could still use the help, though…" Her voice is small, doesn't fit her at all, but he forces a laugh.

"If I must," he chuckles, rolling his eyes in mock annoyance at having to do such a thing. She grins, jabs one rib on his left side. He squirms obligingly, eyes now coming to rest on the rather alarming red stain on the carpet nearby. "What happened over there?" he asks, nodding at the offending spot.

Lydia spins neatly in his arms so she's also facing the spot, and lets out a sigh. "Wine. I spilled some earlier. Was about to clear it up when the banshee phone line went off…" She rubs her forehead and Stiles can guess what she's thinking. She's quietly admitted to him how tentative the Martin money situation currently is, after he quietly admitted the existence of the Eichen House bills. He knows they need this lake house. Just like the Stilinski family need a miracle.

He huffs a little breath that sends her hair temporarily flurrying around her ears. Like a localised little hurricane around her strawberry blonde hair. Then he pushes off the desk, gently prising her off him. "We can sort that out."

Lydia raises an eyebrow, looking thoroughly unconvinced. She knows he's going to call her a pessimist for it, but she can't help but comment: "We can?"

"Pessimist." So predictable. She smiles at her ability to guess his movements, though she has no idea what he's going to do next that will sort out the huge wine stain. "Have you got any white wine?"

"In the cellar, probably- why?" Her face drops into a deadpan expression. "You're not going to be able to just get my mother so drunk that she doesn't notice that stain…She'll be in hospital first!"

Stiles rolls his eyes, shaking his head in mock disappointment. "Lydia, you should know me better by now. The white wine will get the stain out. Trust me."

"That doesn't actually work you know…It's just a rumour spread by drunkards." She crosses her arms, just so that he is entirely clear about her stance on this.

Stiles snorts. "Please. I lived with my dad dropping a fair amount of crap on the floor for several years. I learned the tricks. Now bring me the white wine."

She obliges. Only because it distracts her a little bit from the problems listed on her computer screen. And yes, she looks carefully into each of the shadows of her house as she goes down, but it's with her head held a little higher than it was before. She finds the cheapest bottle of white wine she can, then brings it back upstairs. Can't help but stop in the doorway and smile at her funny little boyfriend, as he sits on the carpet and carefully plots out the stain with one index finger. And, to be fair to him, when the wine works in significantly fading the stain, he isn't that smug. Just enough to bring a real laugh out of her. She can tell from his eyes that hearing this laugh means the world to him, and she wishes she could do another one straight away.

She asks him to stay the night. He agrees, even though his phone is still buzzing. He sends an apologetic text explaining when he'll be back. Then they start to clear up after another full moon. Help the half-asleep Malia into a bed, leave the back door open for Scott when he returns, sweep away all the mess from the party. Then finally climb into bed, blankets wrapped tight around them. And no, Stiles doesn't sleep much, too busy listening out for any tell-tale creaks of assassins' feet. But it doesn't matter, because what he can hear is the quiet breathing of a comfortably asleep Lydia. And that is worth all the sleep in the world.


	5. Episode 5

Stiles is still in his Lacrosse uniform when he gets to the police station. He's just about managed to leave his helmet behind, but other than that he looks ready to take on another team of teenagers at any moment.

His father is not surprised. He had sent his son a text that had simply said 'Lydia needs you', of course he didn't stop to change. He would be feeling proud for his son's dedication to his girlfriend, if he wasn't tracking so much mud in the hallway. Sheriff Stilinski doesn't hesitate in wrestling his son onto the nearby son and refusing to let him up until he's taken the shoes off. "Dad, there isn't time for this!" Stiles groans as he struggles against his father's police-strength grip.

The Sheriff ducks away from his son's flailing limbs but still holds him firm. "They'd be off by now, Stiles!"

The shoes are off two minutes later, though not without a stream of moaning commentary from Stiles. Standing up and grimacing at his rather grubby socks, Stiles turns to shoot his father a wary look. "Am I decent enough now?" he grumbles.

Sheriff Stilinski nods towards his office. "She's in there. Go easy, she's a little on edge. The last thing she needs is you being all…" he waves a hand vaguely at Stiles' general person, earning him a rolling of eyes from his son.

"Being all me?" Stiles suggests, receiving a rather amused grin in return. Huffing a sigh, Stiles pushes his rather sweaty hair away from his forehead before shuffling towards the office. Tries not to slip over because if anybody is going to slip over while walking across the police station in socks, it's him.

Lydia is sitting at his father's desk, hands covering most of her face and head slightly lowered. Her laptop is open in front of her (that damned laptop) and Malia is hovering nervously by her shoulder. When she sees Stiles enter, she looks visibly relieved. Stiles can understand why; a stressed Lydia is often a biting Lydia.

"She's a little frustrated I think, because she's taking so long to get anything useful," Malia states, with her usual bluntness. "Are you aware you haven't got shoes on? Is that something you do after lacrosse games?"

"Not relevant, Malia," Lydia snaps from her spot on the desk, without looking around at them.

Stiles gives the other girl a reassuring wink. "Thanks for looking after her, Malia. I can give you a lift home in a bit, if you're alright hanging around. Dad makes a mediocre cup of coffee, if you ask him nicely."

Malia nods, scurrying out of the room before Lydia can bite her head off anymore. That leaves just him in the firing line but he doesn't mind; he's had his fair share of snapping at Lydia after all. He drags a spare chair over so that he can sit next to her, and places a gentle hand on the small of her back. He can feel her slow, almost laboured breathing, each breath ending with a little shudder as she holds back tears. "Are you okay?" he finally asks.

She looks up then, eyes blazing slightly. "Really, Stiles? That's your question? Do you realise how shitty a day I've had? While you've been prancing around playing lacrosse, I have been pushing my stupid mind over and over, trying to find out the next list and I'm so _tired."_ Even though she's laying into him, she finds herself ending her tirade by falling against him, face pressed into his shoulder and arms wrapped around his bulky lacrosse uniform.

Stiles takes it in his stride. He wraps his arms around her, rubbing soothing circles into her back. His instinct is to argue that he's hardly been 'prancing around', but he guesses that that was what his father meant about 'going easy'. So instead, he lets that slide: "I bet you are, but you should be so proud, Lydia. You worked it out."

"Meredith worked it out," Lydia corrects, the words mumbled into his shoulder but audible nonetheless.

"What, and you had no part in it- give me a break, Lyds." Stiles snorts his disbelief, smiling down at her fondly as she pulls back to give him a scowl.

"All I did was apparently call out to her…and then work out her code. I wasn't able to use my powers in any useful way, while Meredith does it without even being…"

"Sane?" Stiles finishes for her, raising an eyebrow with a small smirk because he knows Lydia needs to hear how irrational she's actually being. Even if it does earn him another Lydia scowl (which he receives a moment later, with great aplomb).

"You know what I mean. I'm meant to be the clever one, I can work anything out…except how to use my own powers."

Stiles finds his fingers tangling up in one strand of her hair, as he begins to wind it round and round in a thoughtful manner. His grin becomes a little more mischievous as he leans back to properly look at her. "Are you experiencing banshee envy?" He follows this slightly teasing comment up with a quick yet lingering kiss flush against her lips, which draws away any of her potential retorts right from her mouth.

When he pulls back, Lydia's cheeks are slightly flushed and she shoots him a mock scowl. "Sometimes I hate how good you are at doing that," she grumbles, prodding his chest a little more firmly than usual, taking advantage of his padded uniform.

Stiles shrugs, looking infuriatingly proud of himself. Then he's serious again. "Meredith is a little _too_ invested in her banshee powers. You don't want to lose yourself in the banshee side of you…especially when Eichen House costs so much," he adds in a grumbled undertone, and Lydia places a soothing kiss against his temple.

Suitably soothed, Stiles stands up. He moves over to the wall on the other side of his dad's office, where the Sheriff is beginning to pin together his own investigation board. Not a patch on Stiles' (in Stiles' opinion) but still useful for a quick investigation. "So…Aiden, huh?"

Lydia nods, rubbing at her forehead as she tries to rid herself of the pounding headache that is currently residing there. "Does that mean they know we're working it out and are trying to upset us?"

"Or is it just meant to remind us how dangerous supernatural people can be?" Stiles suggests darkly, and Lydia can almost see the ghost of the nogitsune hanging over his head. Stiles is doing a lot better, but he still can't quite let go of the fact that he has played a part in the death of his girlfriend's best friend and ex-booty call, no matter how many times they talk through it.

Lydia stands up, comes to stand beside him. Folds her arms and rests lightly against his side as her eyes sweep across Sheriff Stilinski's current wonderings. There's a window next to the wall, and Lydia can just make out their reflection in it. They both look exhausted. Dark rings under their eyes, shoulders sloping downwards, pale skin. She remembers when they were the unstoppable, unshakeable investigative team. They sure have taken a beating lately.

"We need to find out who's next," she murmurs, and Stiles nods slowly.

"We need to find out who's paying," he adds, his own voice barely having the strength to be audible.

They turn to look each other. Lydia tilts her head to the side, smiles thinly. "Malia wants to try a taco," she says.

Stiles looks confused for a moment. "I hardly think that's our priority right now, Lyds…"

Lydia takes his hand. "Stiles, we're both running on empty- we're not going to get anywhere tonight. So let's compromise- we'll still be doing something useful, just not in the same scale. Small victories."

Stiles looks hesitant, then his expression slowly clears away to become one of soft understanding, and gentle adoration for her. He likes to think he's as intuitive as Lydia but really she's streets ahead, in so many ways. He grins, nods. "Okay. Let's go introduce our little protégé to tacos."

Lydia grins triumphantly, moving over to pick up her laptop from the desk. Before she snaps it shut, she can't help but look at the list one more time. Her eyes linger on that name 'Jordan Parrish- 5' but she can't quite bring herself to open that can of worms with Stiles yet. His rapid attachment to all the officers in his father's team is something Lydia always admires in him, but it also means that any possible loss will hit him hard. He's not ready to deal with that yet, and she's not ready to help him. So she closes the laptop without another word and follows him towards the door.

"Malia! We're getting tacos!" she calls over to the other girl, hoping that she can make up for her rather grumpy behaviour with Mexican food. From the look on Malia's face, her chances are pretty high. Then again, maybe she's not the one she needs to be watching out for. "Stiles," she calls, her voice clipped with slight exasperation.

He turns, looking somewhat like a wounded puppy because what has he possibly done wrong this time? "Yes?"

Lydia can't help but laugh, her grin lighting up every angle of her face. "You need your shoes."


	6. Episode 6

_Meredith's gone. I'm sorry. _

He doesn't know how long he holds her after that. He doesn't know how long Deputy Parrish stays on the line before finally hanging up as quietly as he can. He doesn't even know how long it takes Lydia to finally break down in tears. When he brought her into his arms, her expression was so blank, so glazed, that Stiles wouldn't be surprised if it took her half an hour to finally be able to cry. Crying takes focus and Lydia is distinctly blurred right now. And, if he's honest, he doesn't have enough focus to keep track. All he can do is hold her, stroke her hair, whisper that it's going to be alright.

She pulls away just as Stiles begins to worry about his arms falling off. Her cheeks are damp and her eyes watery, tears leaving little spots through her make up. His own phone rings on the desk and she jumps, her nerves thoroughly on edge. "Don't worry," he mutters, pulling her away from the desk. "I'll get it later, it's not important." Ironic, because it actually is. But Stiles isn't to know that it's the hospital calling to tell him that his father has been admitted with bruised ribs and cuts to his face.

He sits down on his bed, bringing her down beside him. She is almost doll-like in her limpness, allowing herself to be brought against his chest (even though Lydia hates to sit like that, because Stiles has a weird bony chest that drives her mad). "Lydia…" he begins, a little warningly. "Don't you blame yourself for this."

"Why not?" she asks quietly, eyes staring straight ahead. "I drove her over the edge, just like I said I did…"

"We were both there, Lydia," he replies straight away. One thumb reaches up to rub at a lingering mark of blood still lingering by her ear. "If that is what happened, then we're both responsible."

She finally drags her gaze round to face him, her expression incredulous. "What do you mean- if? Of course that's what happened. She screamed so hard she made my ears bleed, Stiles. We pushed her too far."

Stiles jumps up, untangling himself from her (with a little difficulty because his limbs still don't quite know where to be in regards to her). He moves over to his desk, spins the laptop round to face Lydia. "She's on the list, Lydia," he says firmly, determined not to let her take this upon her shoulders. Because he knows what guilt does to someone, knows how it sits heavy on your back until your spin begins to bend and creak. "For all we know, someone got into that room and forced her to do that. Or maybe the benefactor found out that she helped us and killed her. There are so many possibilities, Lydia- the chances of her simply killing herself because we upset her a little are pretty small."

His phone rings again. She looks from the laptop screen, to him, then to the phone, then back to him again. "Are you going to get that?"

He glances at the phone, then shakes his head. "No. Don't recognise the number. Hey, even if I did recognise the number I still wouldn't answer it. It can't be more important than making sure you're okay."

He's doing that thing again. That thing when he expresses his love with complete and utter certainty, in a way that brings a red flush to her cheeks because she's still not used to it yet. Her eyes flick to the ground with a weak smile blooming on her lips, as he comes to drop down beside her again. "Nothing?" she questions, coming to drape her legs across his lap as his arm snakes around her middle.

Stiles shoots her a wary look, because Lydia likes to test things to their limit. Just like he does, as a matter of fact. He's beginning to understand why his father no longer makes sweeping statements in his presence. "Nothing," he replies, stubborn as ever.

She rests her chin on his shoulder, licks her lips as she often does just before taking on a serious mental problem. "What if it was a call from the president asking you to take over?"

"Not worth the trouble. Plus that house is too white, it would show up all my dirty habits," he replies without a second of hesitation.

"What if it was Coach telling you that you're co-Captain?"

Stiles snorts. "Wouldn't take it even if he paid me."

"Scott asking to move in with you?"

Stiles hesitates, though it's deliberate. He knows his friendship with Scott is a great source for teasing with Lydia. Indeed, the moment he pauses, she lets out a gasp of mock affront and prods him right under his ribcage. He yelps like a wounded puppy, jerking away from her with a grin. He's back beside her a second later, pulling her in for a kiss that grazes along her lips, across her cheek, then lingers around her poor battered ear.

Well Lydia can't really let that go. She's on top of him, tugging off his shirt, before he can say another word. His hands come to rest on her hips as she leans down to kiss him back, a silent little payback for those kisses still tingling around her ear. He lets out a little snigger against her lips, vibrating through her teeth. It makes her kiss him even more determinedly.

His phone rings again. Lydia lets out a little groan, pulling herself upright so she is sitting on his chest. "Will you just answer that? I can't concentrate."

Stiles huffs, rolling her gently onto the bed beside him before standing up and fetching the phone. "Hello?" he answers the phone, falling silent as someone on the other line speaks to him. Lydia watches his face drop, then watches his eyes darken and his smile flip round to a deep frown. She stands up, coming to stand before him.

He hangs up a moment later. "My dad's in hospital. And Scott's dad. The police van crashed while transporting Violet. He's going to be alright, they said. Just bruised ribs and scratched up a bit." He's listing the injuries to try and make himself feel better, she knows that. But it's not helping. It's her turn, then, to pull him close and press a hand to his back.

Silence for a moment, and it's funny to think that they were almost happy a minute ago. Then Lydia says what Stiles always needs to hear- no what they both always need to hear. "It wasn't your fault."

They go to the hospital after that. Stiles tells her she doesn't have to come if she's not up to it, she tells him to stop being an idiot, of course she's coming. Sheriff Stilinski is sitting up in bed when they arrive, a little worse for wear but smiling nonetheless.

"You didn't have to come, you two- I'm fine. Just a little bashed about, really." He knows as well as Lydia does that Stiles could let this get to him and really his psychological welfare is still shaky. Lydia knows this all the more at that moment, because Stiles' fingers are shaking as they intertwine with her own.

"What happened?" Stiles whispers, staring at his father.

"Kate. Intercepted the van, took Violet. Violently." Stilinski lets out a weak chuckle at his own choice of words. It's not a sound that is echoed by his son.

"Kate?" Stiles echoes, and his eyes have a brutal anger in them. His fingers tighten around Lydia's and she can almost imagine a dark fox lurking behind his back. She squeezes his hand back until his fingers loosen and relax once more.

"Stiles…" his father warns, "Don't go looking for some grand revenge. It doesn't matter. She wasn't after me, just the girl."

Stiles bites his lip, shaking his head slowly. "She didn't need to crash the car, though. She didn't need to hurt anybody…How are you going to work with bruised ribs?" he asks quietly, and the shadow of the dark fox becomes the shadow of a psychiatric hospital waiting for payment.

Stilinski shrugs, and tries not to show how much that movement hurts. "We'll work something out," he says quietly.

Stiles shakes his head, gritting his teeth to stop his emotions overflowing. Then he's pulled his hand free and left the room in a sudden rush of panic. Lydia watches him go, then turns back to the Sheriff. "I'll sort him out, don't worry. He'll be back with those weird granola bars again before you know it." She backs up towards the door, as the Sheriff chuckles weakly.

"I know you will, Lydia. Thank you."

Then she's gone, chasing after her boyfriend before he does something stupid. But it's okay, because someone else has got there first. Scott, who has stopped off to see his own father, has caught Stiles before he can take off out of the hospital altogether. They're sharing a hug, both drawing off each other's pain like they always have been able to do. Lydia pauses, watching them quietly. Scott catches her eye and smiles weakly, as her eyes silently say thank you over and over.

Stiles pulls back a moment later, then finds himself drifting back to Lydia's side, because he needs her to wrap her arms around his middle again. Which she does, without a second of hesitation. As she's hugging him close, she pokes her head round his chest to look at Scott again. "Is your dad okay?" she asks

Scott nods slowly. "He's fine, just a bit sore…" He sighs, sucks in a deep breath. "Stiles, I need to talk to you…at my house. Uh, if that's okay." He still doesn't quite know how to slot himself into Stiles' life now that Lydia is such a large part of it. Luckily Lydia, as always, is steps ahead of them both.

She smiles weakly, nodding her understanding. "I need to get back home anyway, plus someone needs to get the next part of the list out…" She pulls back from Stiles to examine his face then nods, satisfied that he'll be okay. She reaches up to press a gentle kiss against his lips, hands rubbing a soothing circle into his back. "You know where the back door key is if you need me," she murmurs.

Stiles nods, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Likewise with mine."

She grins, then turns to leave. She glances back once, just to check Stiles isn't watching after her with that little lost puppy look he sometimes does when he's forgotten how to function without her. But he's not, he's patting Scott on the back, then allowing his friend to lead him down the corridor. She lets out a small sigh of relief, then turns to make her own way home as well because, as much as Meredith's death haunts the shadows of her heart, there is work to be done.


	7. Episode 7

Lydia Martin is still firmly wrapped in the arms of her mother when Stiles finally makes it out from the school basement. If she's honest, she doesn't think she would be able to leave her mother's arms until she saw him again. Yes, the school is open and the all clear has been given but if anyone is going to still manage to get themselves in danger, it's Stiles. And she's terrified, terrified that any minute now they're going to wheel a white blanket-covered trolley past and underneath the blanket will be her boyfriend.

But he's fine. He stumbles around the corner at the end of the corridor and she gasps into her mother's shoulder. He's covered in the blood and she wants to be surprised but really, why wouldn't he be covered in blood? She pulls back from her mother, squeezes her arm gently. Her mother has turned and seen the boy her daughter has handed her heart to and understands in an instant, stepping back just a tad in case Lydia needs more space than half a school corridor. A needless gesture, really, but appreciated nonetheless.

Lydia runs. She thinks she drops her phone in the process but she sure as hell doesn't care about that right now. Stiles has felt close to death on a number of occasions but this time, for some reason, feels the closest of all. Like he is one second away from being dead man walking. He doesn't notice her at first, his eyes are hollow and lost, and he's distracted by the sheer relief of still, somehow, being alive.

She barrels into him, legs lifting right off the ground. Even head-in-the-clouds Stilinski can't miss that. He lets out a little 'oof!' of surprise, stumbling backwards on legs still a little wobbly from...everything. But he steadies himself, arms wrapping around her so one hand rests on her chest, the other rests on the curve of her lower thigh, holding her off the ground. Her face buries into her chest, tears pooling in her eyes and then dripping onto his shirt. She's sure her clothes are going to get covered in the blood he's splattered in but she doesn't care.

Lydia pulls back after a blissful ten seconds of almost dizzying relief. He looks a little stunned by the entire experience, but he manages to smile a moment later. Presses a firm kiss to her lips, as she lowers her legs to the ground (he's not got werewolf strength, after all). "Wow, wish I got that greeting every morning," he murmurs, his voice breathless and weak. But he's trying to be his usual self, trying to make out like he is untouched by this incident.

"Pretty sure we'd get expelled." She's playing along with his need to banter for a moment, until her hand stops feeling his heart racing against the side of his chest.

Stiles makes a noncommittal noise at that, hands scrabbling for purchase on her side until she stills them against her waist, eyes fixed on him. He's terrified, traumatised, eyes wide and bloodshot, like whatever spattered him with blood managed get into his eyes as well.

She needs to know. "What happened?" she asks. Stiles shakes his head, because he doesn't want her to know, doesn't want her tossing and turning all night with the image he has imprinted on his brain now.

But of course, Lydia isn't about to give up. "What happened, Stiles?" she persists, "where did all the blood come from?"

Stiles seems to have forgotten about the blood. He takes a step back, uses one shaking hand to rub at the blood on his face. His father is in sight, and Stiles doesn't want him to see his son covered in blood. Funny that. "I…I…" Panic is rising so Lydia presses one hand into his upper arm, determined to bring him back from the brink.

"Stiles? Stiles!" His father is calling to him now and Stiles shakes his head, pressing against Lydia because he's sure the entire ground is crumbling away, or tilting or something.

"Hey, hey- I got you," she murmurs, stopping him from falling over completely.

"The blood, he can't…I don't want him to see…" He's frantically pawing at his face now, so Lydia turns towards the approaching Sheriff, holds up one finger that asks for him to wait, just a moment. She doesn't wait to see if he obliges, just takes Stiles' arm and drags him round the corner, leads him out a side door so that he can get some fresh air without the crowds. It seems she gets him outside just in time because seconds later he has turned, buckled, and thrown up on the grass nearby. He heaves two, three times, spitting up very little by the end. It's an emotional response, rather than an actual illness anymore. But it's still not particularly pleasant to watch.

He stays bent over for a moment, just catching his breath. When he straightens up, his eyes are a little more focused. "Sorry," he murmurs. Lydia shakes her head immediately, resting against the wall nearby.

"Don't apologise, it's fine," she replies, firmly but kindly.

He turns to face her, wiping his mouth slowly. He can still taste coppery blood in his mouth, can still feel the assassin's blood soaking into his skin. He almost hurls again. Manages to hold it down this time, though. "The examiner, he was another assassin. He…he poisoned us, infected us…using the finger stamps. It affected the others worse, those with supernatural powers…He wanted to find them, needed visual proof of their…" He trails off, closes his eyes briefly, then forces himself to go on: "He was trying to shoot me…but Scott's dad shot him first and…well..." he gestures weakly at his stained shirt and face, finally turning his eyes back to her.

Lydia is silent for a moment. Her mind churns. Part of her can't help but be relieved because at least her banshee predictions were right this time. Someone did die. And at least it wasn't the innocent this time. But then the realisation that Stiles, _her _Stiles could have been that death, shifts through her and she finds herself extremely thankful for the wall behind her.

"He was going to shoot you?" she whispers.

Stiles tries to shrug it off. "He would never have had a chance, he was nowhere near." Barefaced lie (he needs to stop doing that, he should have learnt that by now ). But he can't tell her that the gun was pressed against his forehead, can't tell her that he was one second away from being shot, that he had already said goodbye to her in his head.

Lydia pushes off the wall, looks at him closely. "Must have been pretty close to get so covered in his blood," she points out quietly.

She says it with a certain accusing edge and Stiles knows he can't hide it from her. His lies have destroyed one friendship today, he can't destroy his relationship as well. "Fine, Lydia. It was on my damn forehead, happy?" he groans, jabbing a finger into his own forehead.

"No," she whispers.

She says it with such a defeated edge to her voice that Stiles immediately regrets telling her, and snapping at her. He closes the gap between them, gently pulls her into a hug again. "I'm sorry," he whispers without hesitation. "I just didn't want you to have to know, to have to think about it…I know how freaked out you are as it is, with Meredith and everything…"

She presses her face into his chest, feels his arms coming around her shoulders. Even though the virus has passed through his system by now, he still feels clammy, wrong. He feels heavy against her, and it's clear he's exhausted. It's time to go home. She pulls back after she's drawn as much reassurance from him as possible. "Your dad will be worrying," she murmurs, a level of tenderness in her voice that nobody else ever receives. She presses a kiss to his lips, then places a guiding hand on his back. "You going to be okay?"

Stiles snorts softly. He has blood on his face, his best friend has avoid death by a whisker while another one of his friends will probably never speak to him again. And, for some reason, he feels like it's all his fault. No, he's not going to be okay.

Lydia senses the hesitation. She smiles, though it comes nowhere near her eyes. "I won't go anywhere. Promise."

This bolsters Stiles. He rubs at his nose belligerently, desperate to get his face as clean as he can. Lydia pulls him gently back towards the school. "We'll go via the toilets."

Stiles laughs at that. A laugh of gratitude for Lydia always knowing the right thing to say. He trails behind her, following her towards the bathroom. Doesn't really comment about the fact that Lydia has marched them both into the boy's locker room (after all, who else is going to be in there?). It feels so much better to splash his face with water, to look in his reflection and see a clean(ish) face. He looks exhausted but without the blood, he can pretend it's from the tests draining it out of him.

When he's clean, they make their way out towards the main corridor again. Before they reach it, though, Stiles turns to Lydia: "Lydia, can I ask you something?" he asks, his voice sounding a tad more steady.

"What is it?" she asks, glancing over at him, fingers coming to entwine in his.

He grins, nuzzles a nose against the side of her head (even though he has to stoop to do so). "How the _hell_ did you pass those tests in freshman year?"


	8. Episode 8

_Lake house, asap. I need you. Lydia xx_

Lydia Martin has never been one for beating around the bush, but this text is short even by her standards. Stiles has glanced at it more than four times since he got into his car (probably not the most safe thing to be doing but he's not really in the caring mindset at that moment). But he can't work out anything beyond the obvious. Can't work out why the hell Lydia is so desperate to see him at her lake house, when she made it very clear that she needed to be alone.

_"I'll come with you, Lyds."_

_ "Don't be moronic, Stiles. Scott needs you for this plan of his. I don't need you for a weekend of wallowing around a house."_

_ "It doesn't feel right. Doing this stuff without you. You're part of the gang, it doesn't work properly with you." _

_ "Stiles, stop it. You and Scott have been concocting idiotic schemes on your own for years now, and me not being involved never stopped you then." _

He doesn't know when he started feeling empty without Lydia nearby. Long enough for him to no longer realise it's happening until something like this weekend makes it obvious. Thoughts straying to her when really he should be focusing on something else, like finding the Benefactor, like keeping Liam and Kira safe while Scott experienced near-death. Normal weekend things.

He arrives at the lake house some time around 8 o'clock in the evening, and is barely out of the Jeep before Lydia has come rushing from the front door to meet him. She catches herself inches before him, remembers that she is not one for cheesy and emotional reunions, that she is meant to be the girl who keeps you guessing (although Stiles would have to be pretty stupid to not know how crazy she was about him).

"Thanks for coming," she says, and smiles into a kiss that Stiles drops lightly against her lips.

"You're welcome," he replies, once he's pulled away. He gives his girlfriend a once over and has to try not to wince. She looks so worn away, more and more each day. He, of course, still thinks she's beautiful, but he can't help but notice how her hair is no longer carefully arranged, how her eyes are lined with shadows, and her skin is becoming a white sheet. It's scaring him a little. It reminds him of his descent into the nogitsune's dark world and while he knows there's no way Lydia is possessed, he still can't help but worry.

Lydia has noticed him looking at her with an expression of utmost concern. He can tell because she's patting the top of her hair in a slightly self-conscious manner. So he hurriedly looks away, moving one hand to the small of her back as he guides them both towards the house. "So what's the big emergency that couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

Lydia pulls a sheet of paper from her pocket and hands it over to Stiles. It feels worn under his fingers, but also weighted with importance (somehow). "What's this?" he asks, using one thumb to unfold it. But then he sees the code scrawled across it and his mouth dries slightly. "This is like your code, the one for the deadpool…Did you write this?" he glances over to Lydia, eyes wide with urgency. He's not sure he can cope if there's another list out there, another load of people they have to worry about.

Lydia shakes her head slowly as they take the front porch steps at a rather slow pace, each step followed by a long pause. "No, it was my grandmother's…my grandmother who died at Eichen House…my grandmother who was hearing voices…" She looks at Stiles with a meaningful expression and he catches the drift.

"Banshees run in the family?" he questions, and she shrugs, slightly bad-temperedly.

"Apparently. I don't know how that's at all possible but there it is!" She rubs her lips together, presses them tight as she tries to control the weary mess of emotions currently tumbling around her head.

"We need to find a way to decode this…" Stiles muses, and Lydia can see that his brain is already kicking itself into overdrive and she wants to cry because she's so damned tired, so sick of riddles and mysteries. She just wants to sleep.

"There's more," she forces herself to say (trying not to sound like she's about to cry). Stiles' head snaps back towards her, eyes narrowing. How like his father he is, with sharp detective skills always itching to switch into action. "My grandmother's ashes…they're not…they're not her ashes."

A single eyebrow raises. Go on, the eyebrow says.

Lydia stops by her front door, hand coming to rest on the doorknob for a moment. "The urn was filled with mountain ash. The entire basement was made of it."

Stiles' eyes narrow even more. "What?" he splutters, as if he can't take another mysterious element to the tale. He places a hand on the front door, stopping her from opening it just yet. He needs to be clear about everything before he does anything else, because his head feels like it's about to explode. "Let me get this straight, then: your grandmother was possibly a banshee, her ashes are mountain ash, and the entire basement of your lake house is made out of the stuff- oh and there's a whole other code that we need to crack?"

"Pretty much," she murmurs.

"Perfect." Words steeped in sarcasm and somehow they make Lydia feel a little better. Stiles' sarcasm always seems to have mystical powers in that respect.

She laughs, shaking her head. "Pretty much," she says again, but with a little bit more light in her voice. With that, she nudges Stiles' hand away and finally opens the front door.

She's greeted by the sight of her mother wearing an apron and brandishing a wooden spoon. Stiles' intake of surprised breath puffs against her ear as he follows her inside and also catches sight of the rather bizarre scene before them. "Oh, wow- hello Mrs Martin," he manages to say, after staring for a good few seconds.

"Hi Stiles," she replies, her smile stretching from ear to ear. "I thought I heard your voice, and good timing too- I'm cooking," she declares.

Lydia lets out a small and frankly adorable (according to Stiles) squeak of horror. "Mum," she says warningly, stepping forward. "You don't have to do that. Stiles is just here to help me out with some stuff. We haven't really got time to eat."

Stiles apparently doesn't agree. "Whatcha cooking, Mrs Martin?" he asks with a bright smile, steadfastedly ignoring the look of fury now being sent his way.

"A chicken dish I learnt from my aunt, it's just the sort of thing you need after a long day- and I've sure had a long day!" She laughs, and Stiles nods his agreement, smirking slightly as he feels Lydia's elbow connect with his side.

"Sounds delicious, I can't wait," he replies, before wincing as Lydia grabs his arm and tugs him towards the nearby living room.

"Won't be a second, Mom!" Lydia calls back, shooting her mother an innocent smile.

"Dinner in five, Lydia!" she returns, her smile just as innocent.

They barely get round the corner before Lydia has her fiercest glare on her face, and it's directed right at her boyfriend. "What are you doing?" she hisses, hands on her hips.

Stiles is thoroughly unabashed. "Being polite, Lyds?" he suggests, a smirk sliding up his face as she smacks his arm. "What? I thought it would be nice for us to do something normal couples do like have dinner with each other's parents instead of, you know, working out who's behind a series of brutal murders!"

"But _now?_" she splutters, eyes wide with confusion. "Of all the times to possibly try being a normal couple?"

Stiles cups her cheek delicately, like she is the first flower of the spring. "Lyds, if we keep putting it off, we'll never do it. There will always be something else. So yeah, _now_."

Lydia looks at him silently for a moment , and Stiles can see the cogs turning in that brilliant mind of hers. Weighing up the options. Finally, she relents. Her face softens slightly, but she points a warning finger in his direction before he can get too comfortable. "Okay, but we're dealing with this code after dinner. Deal?"

Stiles nods brightly. "Deal," he replies immediately, because really he won't be able to sleep tonight without doing at least some investigating.

Lydia can't help but smile at the bright-eyed puppy disguising itself as a boy that is her boyfriend. He really is one of a kind, that's for sure. While she's trying not to look like too much of an adoring school child, her mother calls from the kitchen. Dinner is ready.

Stiles holds out a hand, jerks his head in the direction of the kitchen with the smallest of grins dancing around the side of his face. She takes the hand with a heavy sigh, but also a little giggle. Ever the goofball, Stiles turns to move back towards the kitchen, bounces off the wall he has been leaning against and almost falls onto Lydia. She hurriedly pushes him upright before she is flatted, eyes rolling heavenwards as she pulls him towards the kitchen. "Dumbass," she mutters, but her tone is steeped in sugar. Fond.

They make their way into the kitchen, and both find themselves stopping right on the threshold. Natalie Martin has clearly decided the entire kitchen could use a makeover, for there is a strange brown sauce splattered on almost every surface. It reminds Lydia rather forcibly of the time she and Stiles made bread one weekend. In the centre of this chaos, a steaming dish of chicken casserole, a platter of green vegetables, and a bowl of mashed potato.

"Awesome," Stiles whispers beside Lydia, clearly in awe of the one person who has been able to match him in messiness.

"Grab a plate and load yourself up," Natalie laughs, from her spot by the sink, where she is trying to pile as many saucepans as possible. Stiles doesn't have to be told twice. With a rather gleeful little bounce, he comes forward to grab a plate. It takes him a second to remember his girlfriend behind him, not to mention his girlfriend's mother watching him. Then he shoots Lydia a sheepish smile before handing her a plate. "After you," he says.

Lydia laughs outright at that. "Oh please. Just go- you're about to explode and I don't want that on my conscience."

Again, Stiles does not need to be told twice. He ducks his head, and places a little kiss on Lydia's forehead, before moving to get himself some food. With the day he's had, he can't actually remember eating a proper meal.

And, despite the mess of her kitchen, Natalie Martin is actually a damn good cook. Although this could just be Stiles' near starvation making everything taste like heaven on a fork. Either that or the fact that Natalie lets them have their fair share of red wine. The red wine is certainly responsible for turn of conversation towards funny moments of Lydia's childhood; something that Lydia isn't entirely happy with. It's around the time that Natalia is recounting Lydia's infamous 'diva moment' during the school Nativity play that she's decided they've done the normal couple thing for long enough. She thanks her mother for the food, and offers to do the washing up. A sure fire way to get her mother to bring a meal to an end.

They're standing side by side in the kitchen, cloths in hand, when Stiles nudges her gently with one shoulder. "Your mom's right, you know."

Lydia shoots him a suspicious look. "Right about what?"

Stiles slings his cloth over one shoulder, tugging her a little closer. "You were an adorable shepherd in the nativity play."

Lydia lets out an almighty groan. She flicks soap bubbles in his general direction, ignoring the little squeak of surprise he makes. Pouting slightly, Stiles goes back to his wiping of a saucepan. Lydia's next words are softly murmured, but he still catches them: "At least I didn't have a nosebleed over the baby Jesus."

Not much washing up gets done after that.


	9. Episode 9

It takes a few days before things quieten down enough for Stiles and Lydia to really comprehend what they had been through. The sight of a not-dead-and-somewhat-ominous Meredith was enough to keep things at a breakneck pace and Stiles can't really remember the details, not yet anyway. Finally, without much warning, things come to a halt. Like an emergency brake being applied to the two teenager's lives.

At first, they just sleep. Stiles stays over at Lydia's, tells her he needs to go home for a bit. But only a few hours will pass before she's knocking on his door and they're curling up in bed together again. It's a wonder that they both manage to sleep so much but then Lydia supposes that the mental trauma they have put themselves through is equal to four weeks without sleep. Or something.

After two days of this strange routine, however, things start to catch up with them. Stiles wakes up in the middle of the night with hands stretching out desperately for Lydia, tears in his eyes until she tugs him into a tight hug. Whispers that she's okay. It doesn't help that Stiles has barely settled before she's sobbing into her pillows for her poor murdered grandmother, and writhing away from imaginary syringes.

Shadows begin to appear under their eyes. A matching set.

Dawn appears on the third morning since the Eichen House incident has occurred and the pair can be found in the centre of Stiles' bed. Duvet wrapped around them like one big fluffy cocoon. Lydia has the added cocoon of Stiles' arms and legs wrapped around her as well.

She still doesn't feel completely safe though. Stiles' bony collar bone feels too much like a needle against her skin and she has to keep moving, trying to find a position that doesn't bring a tear-bringing memory to her mind. Stiles is uncharacteristically still, and silent. He lets Lydia do the wriggling for him, while his hands remain looped around her middle, rocking her gently. The sun tracks across the sky from beneath his curtains, they hear the sound of Stilinski trying to make his breakfast with only one good arm. But still they can't move. They drift in and out of light dozes, still upright, still clinging to each other.

At ten o' clock, Stiles gives up on trying to get any more sleep. "Lyds," he mumbles against her hair, and she jerks slightly. Half asleep.

"Mhmm?" Her reply is distant, so he gently eases back away from her so that he crane round to see her face. She's got her eyes open but they're slightly glazed. Like her mind is far off somewhere. Probably in a dark records room. He rubs his thumb along her jawline, until she blinks and turns slightly brighter eyes to meet his.

"We gotta get up, we can't hide in here forever. There's stuff to do." His investigation board stands in the middle of the room just inches away from the bed, mocking them. Reminding them that they don't have time for a steady healing process, like a psychologist would most likely recommend.

"No…no I don't want to," Lydia whimpers, shaking her head back and forth before pressing her forehead against Stiles' collar bone. It scares Stiles to his very core that Lydia can't seem to find herself at the moment, like she lost her way in a fog made up of her grandmother's last dying moments. Stiles remembers how, soon after his mother died, he would go through whole school days without really ever being consciously aware of it, too lost in the endless cycle of his last conversation with her.

He can't let Lydia go through that as well. He shifts, coming to sit directly in front of her (even though the thought of having his back to the door, when a deranged murderer could be sneaking up on him at any moment, is enough to make his skin crawl). "Lydia, look at me. This isn't going to help. If we sit in here replaying that night over and over, we're going to go mad."

She shoots him a doubting look. The look says that she's not entirely convinced that they haven't already lost the plot. So he adds a clarification, with a roll of his eyes that he can't _quite_ supress: "More mad, then."

Lydia looks away, then shakes her head. "I just want to sleep. I need to sleep. If I sleep, I'll feel better," she mumbles, before crawling back towards the pillows, dragging the duvet along with her.

"Lyds…" he tries, but she just makes a small noise of complaint. Quiet, Stiles. He lets out a sigh of frustration; not so much at her but the entire situation that has crumbled away his beautiful, strong, confident girlfriend into a tired, confused teenager. It's not fair, she deserves the world.

He waits until he can hear the soft breathing of her sleeping again. Then he leans down and presses a kiss against her temple. "I'll be back soon," he murmurs. Then he pulls on a pair of pants and creeps out of his bedroom.

His father is still on recovery leave, so is spread out on the couch in front of some hideous looking day time television. He glances up as his son troops past. "Stiles?" he says, bringing him to a halt. "How are you holding up?" Stiles can hear the plural in that word, knows that his father is worried about both of them.

Stiles shrugs. "I don't know," he says honestly. "She's half out of it, like someone's sedated her…" he shivers at the thought, because sedation wasn't too far off what Brunski was planning. Just a little more permanent.

Stilinski reaches across the back of the sofa and squeezes his son's arm, as much as he can from the somewhat unusual position. "She'll pull through. That's the main thing, Stiles. You're both alive. You got out alive."

Alive, yes. At what cost, Stiles isn't so sure. "Anything about Meredith?" he asks.

"You'll know when I do, kiddo."

Stilinski is already turning back to his show, but Stiles catches him with a hand to the shoulder. "Dad- I'm just going out. There's something I need to get. Just…please make sure nobody else comes for her."

His father looks at him with a look that is either pure pride or utter sadness. Maybe both. He nods, pats his son's hand. "Sure thing. Ain't nobody getting to her, promise. Not with two Stilinskis on the case, eh?" He's trying to make light of it, but his voice sounds a little choked. Stiles decides its best to leave before either he or his father start weeping. While he's all for a little emotional release occasionally, now is not the time. Besides he did plenty of that last night. Crying out for her, holding her so tight that he knows he's probably hurting her but needing to check she's real.

He's gone for about an hour. Lydia wakes up before he comes back. She's about to panic but the Sheriff has left a glass of water on the bedside table with a note: 'Idiot son went out for mysterious reason and probably forgot to tell you that. Downstairs if you need anything.'

She doesn't need anything, but she goes downstairs anyway. Sits on the other sofa in Stiles' Lacrosse jumper and tries to focus on the television screen. She's a little better at it, feels a little more connected with reality. Stilinski comments on random little snippets, probably just to make conversation, but it helps her focus. Finally, Stiles returns. Her head snaps towards him, but he just holds up two fingers. _Hang on_. Then he hurries past without another word, carrying a bulging bag with him.

It takes him more than the two minutes his fingers promised. More like five. He shuffles back down the stairs, a slightly nervous expression on his face. She catches his eye, and manages to make a slightly quizzical expression. He uses his head to beckon her over to him, and she somewhat hesitantly obliges. Stilinski is half-sleeping on the sofa and Stiles can't help but snort at the so called police officer he left in charge of his girlfriend's safety.

But then he's back to the task at hand. He takes Lydia's hand as she comes to his side, and gently tugs her up at the stairs. "I hope your grandmother doesn't mind, but I sorta borrowed her hobby."

"What?" Lydia asks blearily, too dazed to really work out what Stiles is getting at.

But then they reach Stiles' room and Stiles pushes the door open and it becomes a lot more obvious. Stiles' floor has been covered with a turquoise blanket, upon which Stiles has placed an assortment of plastic fish toys. A pile of pillows sit in the centre of the blanket, with a bowl of goldfish crackers and what looks like a plate of fish sticks in front of it. Finally, screen glowing in the darkened room (the curtains are still shut), Stiles' laptop waits. On the screen, just visible, is the frozen image of an all too familiar castle logo.

Lydia turns to Stiles, mouth hanging open slightly. "Stiles…is this…?" she begins, and Stiles nods, ducking his head slightly as nervousness takes over. It's a bit of a risk that she'll like it, after all.

"Yeah…I know you started with the book, but I could only find the movie. Your mom let me borrow it on the firm condition that I brought it back pristine so…" He bites down his lip, looks at her with a hint of a wonky smile. "Do you like it?"

"Like it…I…" Lydia purses his lips, because words aren't really her friend right now. So she settles for the next best thing and pulls him in for a kiss, flush against his lips. It's so full of life, so full of _Lydia_ that Stiles could almost cry with relief.

He manages to keep it together, though. "Come on then. I haven't actually seen this one the whole way through- Scott and I preferred Toy Story…I was Woody and he was Buzz. We had costumes…" he's rambling, but Lydia loves it and kisses him again. The memory of Brunski bearing down on her, syringe in hand, is temporarily replaced by miniature Stiles and Scott in cowboy and spaceman costumes.

They settle down on the blankets. It takes another two minutes for Stiles to work out the perfect arrangement of pillows and girlfriend, but Lydia is quite happy to wait. When he's finally comfortable (the pillows are in a fort-like structure around them and Lydia is tucked under his chin and rested against his chest), they begin. The movie starts and Lydia lets the memories wash over, lets the pain of her grandmother's murder begin to soften as she blocks out the sounds of her death with the sounds of her story-telling. Memories of the pair of them laughing at how inaccurate the movie was, but loving it anyway.

By the time the movie has finished, the fractures left by Brunski's actions have begun to seal. It will be a long while before they're completely gone but it's enough for now. Lydia turns to Stiles as the credits roll, her eyes bright and sharp. "What did you think?" she asks.

Stiles grins. "I think you would have made a better mermaid. You would never have fallen for all that crap from Ursula. And even if you had, you would have found a much better way to tell the dude everything."

Lydia nods her acceptance. "I agree. The only reason I stopped getting everyone to call me Ariel was because I began to unpick the story and realised what a dumbass she was."

Stiles has to laugh. It's a giddy laugh, full of relief that he has brought Lydia back from her haze. He watches as she stands up, stretches slightly. "Now…" she says, pushing up the sleeves of Stiles' jumper as she turns to face their investigation board. "Time to solve this mystery once and for all."

And in that moment, with the evening sunset peeking through the curtains and setting her strawberry blonde hair aglow, Stiles is pretty sure he's never loved her more.


	10. Episode 10

Stiles has seen his girlfriend furious a number of times. Stiles has seen Lydia Martin's eyes blaze with utter rage and has heard vicious words spit from her mouth. But rarely has this fury been directed at him, something which his father has repeatedly called 'a miracle sent from the heavens'. Now, though, it seems as if that little fluke is coming to an end. Because Lydia Martin is standing in front of him and, oh boy, she looks terrifying (but also gorgeous because he's sure her hair is redder).

He's standing in the study of the Lake House. Malia left about ten minutes ago, after Stiles warned her of the oncoming fury that was his girlfriend. Leaving him, standing in front of the shattered wall with feet inches away from a splattered mess of wine (not wine, but still very much there on the carpet).

"What…" she begins, after staring at the room for a good five seconds (oh how he hates the silence). "…have you done to my lake house?"

"Hey, guess who stopped the Deadpool? Begins with 'S'…rhymes with…" Stiles casts around frantically, as Lydia takes a step forward.

"Biles?" She suggests, her voice still as deadly as a pissed off snake in your bed.

"Or…miles…like how many I should possibly put between myself and you?"

Lydia explodes. She throws her hands up in the air, eyes snapping shut before flying open again a moment later. "Stiles!" she shouts, "there is wine all over my carpet!"

"Technically not wine," he mumbles to the ground.

"Still a _fucking_ huge stain in the middle of my carpet!"

Stiles winces, coming a little closer (though, wisely, keeping out of her reach). "Well, yes, but we did find the key..."

"Couldn't you have broken it somewhere else? Over the sink perhaps?" The exasperation in Lydia's voice is clear as day, and makes Stiles wince slightly.

"Well…to be fair to me…which we should always do…it wasn't me who spilled the wine." He knows that he's not being the best of friends by dropping Malia in it but then Malia doesn't have to share a bed with Lydia tonight (and that's if he's lucky).

Lydia crosses her arms. "Stiles. You have stopped Malia from doing a number of stupid things, including trying to tell the Principal that his scent was all wrong- I'm sure you could have stopped her doing this!"

"What, so you think I did it deliberately?" Stiles' voice is also raising now, his temper also beginning to flare because Lydia's anger is really not required. Not when he has just effectively saved her life, saved a whole bunch of people's lives. "You think I stood in the middle of your stupid study and thought: 'hey, I could put this in the sink…nope! I'm going to pour it all over my girlfriend's floor because that's the way I like to express my undying love for her!' . Because that totally sounds like something I would do." Exhausted from his little outburst, Stiles turns away, running a hand through his hair as a puff of breath escapes his chapped lips.

A second passes, then Lydia speaks again, her voice small: "What did you say?"

Stiles turns. Lydia is staring at him, one arm now wrapped around her middle. She looks vulnerable, something that Stiles very rarely associates with Lydia Martin.

"What did you say?" she asks again, a little louder.

"You want me to repeat all that? I'm not sure I can…"

Lydia huffs impatiently, her moment of vulnerability very much gone. "Not all of it, dumbass. The bit…bit about you expressing your…" she trails off, staring at him as if he's the only light in a pitch black tunnel. A look she's echoed from him, if she's honest.

"My...?" Stiles prompts, then pales somewhat. He's just remembered what he's said, in the heat of one of his characteristic rants. He's just remembered that he has told her, one way or another, that he loves her. Undyingly.

"Stiles?" Lydia is grinning a little now, obviously enjoying the immense discomfort she has caused her boyfriend (while also feeling the warm glow of pleasure in her heart at realising that Stiles Stilinski might possibly love her).

He's tried to say it to her before. Lots of times. And it's not because he doesn't love her that the words stick to the roof of his mouth. It's because he's scared that he'll say them and they won't convey just how _much_ he loves her. That he'll say them and they'll just feel like three words. Like he might as well have said 'I approve of you'.

"Uh…" he begins, and then stops talking again. Lydia has stepped forward and she's wearing that look she wears sometimes, that makes Stiles feel like the world is spinning double speed.

She stops before him, and her feet are planted in the red wine stain; that ship has clearly sailed. "Go on…you were saying…?"

"You are freakin' terrifying, you know that?" he whispers, as Lydia's arms wrap around his middle. "Sure you don't want to go back to yelling at me?"

Lydia shakes her head, eyes glittering. He can see how exhausted she is, see that she needs this. He has no idea what exactly she's gone through today, but he can imagine that it hasn't been a bed of roses. She needs this. "Lydia…" Sucks in a deep breath, fingers stilling against the nubs of her spine. "I was saying that I wouldn't express my undying love for you by spilling wine over your carpet. I'd do it by saying…" he pauses, catches his heartbeat before it races away, "I love you."

Her cheeks flush immediately and before he knows it, she's got her arms around his neck and her legs around his middle (this is becoming a habit). He staggers back, until his back collides with the now dormant deadpool machine. For a moment of panic, both teenagers are convinced they've turned it back on. But it stays still, and silent. Mercifully. Lydia lets out a soft giggle (the sort that sends shivers through every nerve in Stiles' body) before pressing her lips against his. Softer than any kiss he's ever received from her, paired with a soft noise halfway between a moan and a hum. It speaks happiness to him. He hopes. They kiss for minutes uncountable (like either of them is keeping track), not stopping even when Stiles' feels some button digging painfully into his side.

When they do pull back, Lydia doesn't hesitate. "I love you too, Stiles- oh God I really do," she whispers, holding him so tightly that Stiles worries his fragile bones are going to start creaking. But only distantly, because his main thoughts lie in the fact that Lydia Martin has just told him that she loves him. Him. Stiles Stilinski, the kid she used to ignore in the school corridors.

He meets her eyes, and isn't surprised to feel tears rolling down his cheek. "I'm happy," he says hurriedly, just in case Lydia worries that she's somehow upset him.

"I know," she replies, with a laugh at her ridiculous boyfriend. "I'm aware of that, idiot." She gives his hair a ruffle, taking advantage of being almost level with his head.

He grins, then glances towards the red stain on the carpet. "Is your mum going to freak about the stain?" he asks softly, hands coming to rest on the curve of her bottom (which draws a smirk from her).

"She's more likely to freak out about the huge hole in the wall, funnily enough."

"Oh, you think?" Stiles asks, his voice mockingly clueless. This earns him another, slightly more violent ruffle of his hair, which he receives without much complaint. It's likely that he deserved it, after all.

"She'll be fine," Lydia murmurs into his neck, nose nuzzling against his skin. "I wouldn't worry."

Stiles chuckles, gently pushing away from the deadpool machine and placing Lydia back down on the ground. He keeps her close though, arms now wrapping around her shoulders as hers come to snake around his middle. "You've changed your tune," he points out.

Lydia shrugs, then tugs him towards the door. "That was before you expressed your undying love for me," she replies, shooting back a grin. She stops in the landing, steps back, and holds out a hand. "Phone," she demands.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

Lydia gives him another one of her trademark looks. The one that Stiles has come to name 'kit off, son'. Because that's what tends to happen soon after such a look. "Because…I've had a long day, and I don't want to be interrupted."

Stiles does not need to be told twice. Phone goes into her palm, joined a moment later by Lydia's own. These both get chucked on the floor of the hallway (which, coincidentally, is where Stiles ends up a moment later, though a few metres down the hall in Lydia's lake house bedroom). Lydia just about manages to remember to close the bedroom door after her, before she's on top of him and kissing him like it's their first time all over again (Lydia's bathroom, a week before Mexico).

When they emerge, sometime later, Lydia has the same look she wears when she completely aces a school test and once again proved to the world that perfect hair and perfect grades are not mutually exclusive. Stiles comes to stand beside her, as they both stare down the hallway at their phones. They're both vibrating, screens glowing impatiently.

"How many?" Stiles murmurs, wrapping his arms around her and tugging her gently against him.

"Missed calls?" she prompts, and he nods. "I'm going to say….seven on yours, five on mine."

"Nah, you're going to have six. Scott always defaults to yelling at your voicemail once I've ignored him three times…"

"You're talking out of your butt, Stilinski. Scott gave up doing that ages ago."

"Okay…but if I'm right, we do that again," Stiles replies, gesturing back towards Lydia's thoroughly rumpled bedroom.

"And if you're wrong, you build me a new wall."

"I'm pretty sure you _don't_ want that to happen."

Lydia shoots him a daring grin. "Not as much as you don't, so we're all good."

"Okay, Martin. You're on."

They step forward, almost tentatively. Step by step, in perfect synchronisation. They pick up each other's phone, stare at the screens. Then Stiles makes a small, sad noise.

"Better go get some plaster, Stilinski."


End file.
